


The Only Gift

by HopelessRomantic79



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Anal Sex, Bottom!Sherlock, Christmas, Christmas Presents, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, I Love You, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, POV First Person, POV John Watson, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, top!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-02 04:56:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2800382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopelessRomantic79/pseuds/HopelessRomantic79
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘Isn’t that what… boyfriends,’ he spits out the word as though it were venom, ‘do? Exchange gifts at Christmas?’<br/>	‘You don’t have to sound so excited about it Sherlock,’ I smirk. ‘And if I’m not your boyfriend,’ I avoid his gaze now, realizing how intimate a conversation this has become, ‘then who am I?’ God, why does that question make my heart race in anticipation?<br/>	‘You’re John. My John.’<br/>	‘Right,’ I say, even as a bloom of warmth moves through me. I look up at him, his eyes fixed on me with a softness I don’t see often on his face. I love it. I’m moved, right now, right in the middle of bloody Selfridges, to confess every feeling I possess to this man. ‘As you are mine.’</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Only Gift

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Undefined20Something](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Undefined20Something/gifts).



I’ve no idea what I'm doing. Sherlock, of course, would say this was nothing new, to which I would shoot him a dirty look, but in this case, he would be right.

Have I bought Christmas gifts for family, friends, former girlfriends before? Yes, of course. Even my disaster of a marriage survived long enough for the obligatory gift exchange, though I try not to dwell too hard over that.

Have I ever bought a gift for my flatmate-turned-lover before? Technically, yes. Small gifts, nothing of consequence. Certainly nothing meaning more than utility and acknowledgment of our friendship and partnership. Sherlock Holmes has, since the day I met him, taken up most of my universe. Now he is the centre of it; the whole of my being is surrounded by him. And I've no idea how to express it now. I can just hear him now, his voice deep and slightly derisive, teasing me in his own way about worrying about commercialism and social obligation, and how completely unnecessary it all was. How boring the holidays are. Tradition and jumpers and mulled wine and smiling at people you saw every other day of the year anyhow.

But that wasn't the point, now, was it? We're together now, partners in every sense of the word. By some miracle, I think he loves me, and I sure as hell love him. More than reason. More than any gift could express, surely. Besides, Sherlock is entirely new to the concept of sentiment. Even the word ‘ _romance_ ’ makes his face twist with disdain, though we both know he’s fully capable of expressing it.

_Why, just last night…_

Suddenly, I am blushing down to my toes in the middle of Oxford Street with a thousand other shoppers dodging round me. _Christ._

The trouble is, Sherlock is one of those people who would be difficult to buy for, even if he weren't… well, himself. Lord knows his supposed trust fund (never spoken of, but largely assumed) took care of all of his necessities, and wants besides. And who wants their lover to buy them something they needed anyhow?

I don't even know where to start, so I pop into the Waterstone before I pass by. I need to tick Harry and Mrs Hudson off my list, and as I gave them both generic scarves last year, I've looked into a few books they may like this time round. Beyond the queue halfway out the door, the trip is quick. I'm half tempted to bring home a few volumes for Sherlock, but he’s already got enough volumes of anatomy, poisonous plants, chemistry, and bloody tobacco ash to read for the rest of his life and then some.

No, he needs something only I can give him. That I can afford. And that doesn't involve asking Lestrade and Mycroft to pull any strings. After all, there are only so many interesting cold cases, “favors” to big brother, and walk-ins off my blog to keep Sherlock occupied between Sevens and up.

The books for Harry and Mrs H tucked under my arm, I move back into the rush of Oxford Street. It’s getting to be evening, so both the sidewalks and the streets are jammed with people and cars and double-deckers. My therapist once asked me if crowds ever gave me anxiety. As if I needed anything else to add to ‘the list’ of triggers I was informed I had. No. Crowds are part of the reason I craved London when I was invalided. Crowds are where I can blend in, get lost inside the chaos. Of course, now I see London through Sherlock’s eyes. Through the chaos comes order, sometimes more than I care to observe. I notice each person individually rather than the blur they used to be. I see each CCTV camera and send a smirk up to Mycroft in case he’s watching. But it’s Christmas, and most people are all here for the same thing: shopping. Bags and lights and… wait.

He'd hate for me to say it, but the “master of disguise in plain sight” sticks out like a sore thumb through the festive atmosphere. Tall, regal in stature, and dark in that long Belstaff… He’s across the side street, just on the corner, backed against the stone as though he is a part of it. I know he probably thinks I won't notice him, but hell, I can't not notice him. My heart kicks up a little in my chest, like a little jolt of adrenaline right through me. Everything about him draws me to him, as it always has.

I slow my pace a little, and watch as he pretends not to watch me. His cheeks are high with color, even though he’s turned up his collar against the wind (of course), hands in his pockets. His eyes dart through the crowd, probably learning every facet of each passerby. I wonder if this is how he practices his deductions. In a moment, I've decided to ignore him, not because I want to, but because I want to know what he’s up to. He can’t be shopping as well. I can't picture him sifting through department stores, let alone Primark. Even Harrods seems a little low-brow for Sherlock Holmes, who dresses half of the time like a vagrant and half like the bloody Duke of Wellington might have done.

_This could be fun_ , I think to myself. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to fight the grin that wants to spread over my face as I wait to cross the street, standing with a crowd that gathers for the lights to change, and focus my gaze firmly ahead of me. I can feel his eyes follow me as I pass by him, mere feet away, and know when he follows behind me. My hand plays with the phone in my pocket, tempted as I am to text him and innocently ask him what he’s doing, but I want to play with him a bit before I do. It takes me a moment to decide where to head to. He'll know I know he’s there if I go for any of the stores that are too young, too hip, or too obnoxious. Besides, if I keep on walking for awhile, he might just cave and catch up with me. Secretly, I want him to; I’m imagining Sherlock pulling me into a side street and giving me the snog of a lifetime whilst a thousand Londoners walk past, oblivious. We're still in the honeymoon phase of our relationship; deny it as he may, it’s almost impossible for us to spend time apart right now. We could, but we just don't want to (says the addict). We spent years tiptoeing around each other, years apart, and another year or so getting ourselves straight, so to speak; why waste precious time? He’s already come back from the dead for me. He’s done everything for me, above and beyond what I could have ever asked for in a life mate, and I want to give him everything in return. Including, but not limited to, say, a blow job in the fitting rooms of a haberdashery. Just to start.

In the crowd, it takes me longer than I first anticipated to, but soon enough, we reach Selfridges. The change in temperature from the chilly gusts outside to the heat of lights and bodies moving about in a frantic pace inside makes my shoulder ache, especially as I move my arm a bit with the books tucked under it. A long, hot bath will be called for after this long evening. It seems like ages before I'm able to untangle myself from the fray nearest the doors, to get where there are more products than people. Cloying perfumes, overly helpful shop assistants, and too many prams and humanity in one small space. I move through the ground floor, past all the glass counters and perfumes that make my head swim unpleasantly. In the mirrors surrounding the escalators, I can see that Sherlock is about twenty feet behind me, his gaze intent on me now. I’d blush, except he’s seen me under much higher scrutiny than this.

The first floor is all men’s clothing, which makes a certain amount of sense that I'd be here if Sherlock was questioning my motives. If I don’t look like at the price tags, that is. I make a big show about wandering around the designer shirts (as if), before moving towards the ties. The ties, of course, must cost more than our food bill for an entire month, but I take my time looking through each pattern and color. I almost wish I could bring a tie like this home with me for him, but I know he'd never deign to wear it.

‘May I help you sir?’ someone asks behind me, and I almost turn before I hear Sherlock reply in his best formal tone.

‘No, thank you.’

I smile to the scraps of cloth, before looking harder than ever at a particularly lovely dark purple tie that really would look quite nice with his favourite button-up. When I finally turn, he’s of course gone, but as I turn back around, the same clerk has found me. I fight uttering a dark ‘ _Christ_ ’ in surprise, and instead give him a strained smile.

‘Sir,’ the man smiles. ‘May I help you find what you are looking for today?’

‘Er,’ I stammer for a moment, thrown off. ‘No, thank you. I was just looking for… for my, uh...’

Definition of terms has never been a strong suit of Sherlock’s and mine. We just are.

‘You have made an excellent choice, sir. This tie, of course,’ the clerk says, apparently oblivious to my newfound stammer, and picks up the very same item I was looking at, ‘is made of the finest materials from-’

‘Yes, I'll just keep looking for now, please. Sorry,’ I say.

Of course, I choose now to become an absolute tit. Really, I just want to see Sherlock now. The more I see this tie, the more I want to see him wearing it and absolutely nothing else, and that’s not something this poor, unsuspecting man needs to witness.

‘Certainly, sir,’ the clerk says with a hint of disappointment in his tone. I try to shoot him a reassuring smile, before moving away from the table. Where has he gone? Where he stood out from the crowd just half an hour ago, now he is invisible to me.

_Dickhead_ …

A little miffed my game has backfired on me, I try to take one last sweeping glance before moving back towards the descending escalator. I’m just about to step on when my eyes find him. I stumble backwards, almost into a woman with too-bright lipstick twisted into a sneer. ‘Sorry,’ I mutter, and stand out of the way as she harumphs to my back. I ignore her and just… watch him. It’s so rare when I get to see him be himself outside the flat. He’s standing by a table not unlike the ties I was stood by moments ago, but these are button-ups. His long, pale fingers (which feel amazing wrapped round my cock) trace the little rows of buttons, caressing the fabric almost as he strokes my skin while we make love. The heat I feel stabs me right in the chest, filling me with warmth of the memory of how we moved together this morning, the last time he touched me in that same manner. Fuck, I'm a goner if just seeing him touch a fucking shirt makes me hard in my jeans.

Just as I'm about to swallow my tongue during my best impression of a thirteen year old boy in a swimming pool discovering the joy of the word “wet”, Sherlock turns and looks me straight in the eye. ‘John,’ he says conversationally, as though we were just in the middle of a discussion, ‘which do you prefer?’ He gestures towards a pale blue number which I suspect would make his eyes almost translucent, and a deep red that would match the shade his chest achieves right after orgasm.

‘Uh,’ is my brilliant reply. I walk to him, right beside him where I belong. Jesus, maybe he was right about my old poetry to my ex-girlfriends. ‘I think you'd look well in both,’ I tell him truthfully.

‘Do keep up John, they'd be for you.’ ‘For- for me?’ Sherlock rolls his eyes at me. ‘It’s Christmas, John.’ ‘Uh, whatever… whatever you'd want to give me… You don't have to…’ The cost alone, really, is too much. ‘Isn't that what… boyfriends,’ he spits out the word as though it were venom, ‘do? Exchange gifts at Christmas?’

‘You don't have to sound so excited about it Sherlock,’ I smirk. ‘And if I'm not your boyfriend,’ I avoid his gaze now, realizing how intimate a conversation this has become, ‘then who am I?’ God, why does that question make my heart race in anticipation?

‘You’re John. _My_ John.’

‘Right,’ I say, even as a bloom of warmth moves through me. I look up at him, his eyes fixed on me with a softness I don't see often on his face. I love it. I'm moved, right now, right in the middle of bloody Selfridges, to confess every feeling I possess to this man. ‘As you are mine.’

His responding smile makes my throat ache; it’s something I'll never forget. ‘So,’ he says, his cheeks still tinged with cold, and now I suspect, with emotion, ‘we're agreed then. You’d like this shirt.’

‘You’re daft sometimes, you know,’ I grin, reaching my hand up towards his, brushing our fingers together over the material of the shirt.

‘Can we just agree that we don't need to exchange gifts?’ Sherlock asks, taking my hand and tugging me away from the table. His grip is so warm in mine. ‘I'm terrible, just awful at this, and you know how hard it is for me to admit that.’

I laugh. ‘I'm humbled by your honesty.’ He rolls his eyes again as we make our way towards the exit. I'm currently fighting the urge to push him towards the jumper section of the store. I’d give my left leg to see him wearing a golf-style number before we leave. By now, the traffic has slowed, but the evening is nice enough to walk the fifteen or so minutes back home. His fingers twine through mine, and he even offers to carry my packages as we walk. Scoff as he may about romance, and as much as he claims to be a sociopath, I know better.

‘So why were you following me?’ I ask when we're several streets away from all the hustle and bustle of humanity.

‘I was… I was hoping you'd help me.’

‘Help you what?’

‘Find you a gift,’ Sherlock mutters. ‘I’ve no idea how to do this, John. I thought you'd give me a hint.’

I grin up at him. ‘You could have asked me.’ He shoots me a wary look out of the corner of his eye.

‘Fine then,’ I laugh. ‘So you followed me.’

‘I wasn't following you. I was...’ He pauses long enough for me to look back up at him. His cheeks are tinged with pink, more than just from the cold, and he has this nervous look on his face that I’ve never seen before. It intrigues me. ‘You waited until the twentieth of December to do your shopping, which was immeasurably frustrating,’ he points out, evading my statement. ‘John.’ He stops, and I take a step past him before realising what he’s doing. I stop too, whirling around like a git, and he grabs my hand; warm, slender fingers wrap around my colder, shorter ones. ‘You know I've never been in a relationship such as ours before. This is quite new to me, and I wanted to- I wanted-’ He swallows hard, and if it’s possible, turns a little pinker. The pavement becomes fascinating to him as he looks down.

Suddenly, I know this is the kind of conversation that’s best for the privacy of home, so I tug his hand gently, and we finish the rest of our walk in silence. He unlocks the door to 221B Baker Street, and we trudge up the stairs together. Once inside, we shrug off our coats and scarves, and Sherlock immediately toes off his shoes, holding out my books to me. Apparently he’s done being helpful for the evening; that’s fine with me, it’s still more than he’s ever offered before.

It looks as though he’s even tidied the flat a little before coming out shopping with me. The table is only half covered in experiments, three plates full of crumbs, and one questionable-looking tea mug. The fire has also been somewhat put out- he probably didn't think about stoking it down before leaving. Fire hazard aside, it feels wonderfully warm and cosy.

‘Here, sit here,’ Sherlock says suddenly, grabbing my hand and guiding to my chair. ‘I have to-’ He looks like he does just before he’s solved a case: agitated and throwing all the pieces together into place. His lips are set in a thin line.

‘Are you alright, Sherlock?’ I ask as he sits opposite me. ‘If this is about the gift-giving thing, we don't have to exchange anything. I really don't mind. If it helps, I haven't a clue what to buy for you either.’

‘It’s not about that.’ He waves his hand in the air dismissively before grabbing the arms of his chair like he’s prepared to launch himself from it at any moment. I swallow, and wait for him to continue. He’s so… erethral. Those rosy cheeks set against his ridiculously pale skin, and his hair that I know he loves being tugged on while we snog. Sometimes I have to remind myself to breathe when I look at him, to remind myself that he is mine and mine alone now. All those damnable years of nothing and holding back, wasted. Of knowing exactly what I wanted, hoping it was what he wanted as well, and never taking that last step. The goddamned pain and joy of getting him back. Of nearly losing him another time over. Of realising what an arse I was, with Mary, with all of it. Finally getting the courage to just be with him in the way I'd pretended to not want for so many fucking days and nights...

Suddenly, I realise what he’s about to say, because I want to say it myself. I've been waiting to say the words myself for ages. I stop myself daily from dropping it into normal conversation, as I do the dishes, as we kiss, as we ride in taxi cabs together, as we stand around a body and he does his amazing, incredible, fascinating things, as we stand around NSY in Lestrade’s office, whenever he does something utterly brilliant. In other words, always. Both of us know and accept that emotions are not our forte, so we go about our lives with the understanding that we don't need to say these things aloud, these beautiful, wonderful words I've meant more times than I’ve said, but now, it needs to become concrete and audible. Forever.

‘I love you.’

It takes me a moment to realise I've said the words aloud, and it takes us both aback. He looks stunned, and I lick my lips out of reflex. My heart is hammering in my chest, pounding through my ears so loudly that if he has a reply, I can't hear it. All I can do is sit and try to breathe, which is made difficult by Sherlock’s next move, dropping to his knees between my knees, reaching up, and drawing me into a spectacular kiss. It’s so stunningly good, this kiss, that it takes me a moment to get my wits about me and kiss him back. His lips move across mine with practised heat, and soon, I’m kissing him back with equal measure. Our tongues brush together with the same aching need that is filling the pit of my stomach. I wrap my arms around his shoulders and try to pull him up, pull him closer to me. The heat of the fire is mixed with the blood rushing through my body, and suddenly it’s overwhelming.

‘Tell me again,’ Sherlock breathes against my lips, then kisses me again before I can answer. I lick into his mouth, then catch his bottom lip between my teeth. I slowly pull it free, before gasping, ‘I love you,’ once more. His response is electric as he frames my face with his hands. He clambers into my lap, straddling my hips and devouring my mouth almost simultaneously. I don't know where to touch first, but without even thinking about it, my hands find his arse and squeeze hard as I can. Sherlock pulls his lips away from mine and groans loudly into my neck.

‘John, I-’

‘Yes.’ Whatever the question is, the answer always has been, and always will be, yes.

‘Take me to bed,’ he murmurs, and gives me another searing kiss that melts my joints. It takes us a solid twenty minutes to pry ourselves apart from each other and the chair, but after closing the landing door (just in case Mrs H was thinking of stopping by this evening), we spirit ourselves away to our bedroom.

Sherlock pounces on me as soon as we reach the threshold, his fingers a fumbling mess on my jeans. We've certainly had enough sex in the last few months to make him an expert at undressing me, but something about my confession must have made his brain short-circuit just as mine has. We land in a furious heap on the bed, both trying to prise clothing off the other. It’s joyous, heady foreplay, with lingering lips and hands and half-undressed groping. I'm so hard it aches, but I'm equally content to just kiss him like this, to mark his neck with playful nips and to kiss my way down his chest as it’s exposed.

‘John,’ he gasps. ‘You must know… You must. I love you, too.’ I’d been pinching his right nipple and biting his Adam’s apple as he tells me this, and I pause. I feel a grin spread across my face unlike any other smile I've ever given anyone in my entire life. He returns the smile, and then we're on each other once more, if possible more enthusiastic than ever.

I finally get into his pants, cupping my hand around his cock, which is as hard as mine. I want… I want… We kiss as though the world is ending and we've only moments left to live, but I want this first of sorts to last longer. I push Sherlock onto his back and straddle his hips. He’s still wearing his button-down, undone to his navel, and I push it off his shoulders.While I'm at it, I remove my own button-down and vest, and toss them to parts unknown. He’s smiling up at me, looking half-drunk and completely in love. He’s always looked at me this way, how had I never seen it before? He lifts his arms up, smoothing themselves over my shoulders. He’s always been careful around my scars, inevitably curious but respectful. He bears his own marks, some of which he endured for me, and I feel my throat constrict. I have to swallow as he tenderly touches me. From my shoulders, his fingertips drift down to my waist, and curl around the waistband of my jeans.

‘Please,’ he rasps, and I nod once. Moments later, he’s pulled my cock free, and I have to close my eyes for the intensity of his touch. He pushes softly, and I end up on my back now with Sherlock hovering over me. He sheds his pants and socks, and then he rids me of my own pants. Our cocks brush together when he hovers over me, and we kiss slowly. He makes love to my mouth the way he wants me to make love to him soon, and I can't breathe for wanting him so badly. I reach down for his cock, and find it weeping with precome. I need that in my mouth, so badly, so I grab his hips up, and he kneels at my head, guiding his cock to my lips. He tastes so fucking good, and he hisses as I take him as far down my throat as I can, gathering up all his precome on my tongue. I swirl my tongue around his frenulum, and into the slit at the top, and he moans my name. Using my hands, I wrap one around his shaft and the other around his balls as I bob my head over the head.

‘John,’ he hisses after a few minutes. I look up at him, and move faster for just a moment. He’s close already, I can see and feel it, so I back off with my mouth, only rolling his testicles in my hand, brushing just so against his perineum. ‘My turn.’

I nod, and he leans down my body, straddling my shoulders. Jesus, we've never tried this position before, and I want it so much my mouth waters. Now, I can… I stop thinking when his hot mouth descends over my cock. His nose lets out a gust of hot air over my bollocks as he deep throats me, the back of his throat swallowing around my head.

‘Shit,’ I gasp. He’s got such a gorgeous mouth, capable of spitting venom and deductions and filth and pure sin… He does it again, and I shout at the ceiling with pleasure.

‘John… prepare me. I want this inside me as soon as possible,’ Sherlock says with the deepest register I’ve ever heard him use. His lips are swollen and slick with saliva, and lust bolts through me, hotter than ever.

‘Oh God, yes,’ I agree, and reach up to grasp his arse cheeks in my hands. His small, pink hole is so tempting, right at my mouth, and I don’t hesitate. I go for the kill, and he lets go of my prick to shout my name into the dark room. My tongue darts around the rim, and I let my hands spread his cheeks so I can really get in there. He is licking up and down my cock, whimpering as I push my tongue inside his arse. He loves it when I do this, and I fucking love it too. I could spend hours eating his arse, so I take my time, pushing and bobbing my head so as to fuck it as far as I can. Soon, though, he’s greedily grasping for more, so I add a finger, then another. My face is as covered in saliva as his hole, but I reach into our bedside table for the bottle of lube we keep, and drizzle it right on him.

‘Fuck, that’s beautiful,’ I moan, as the muscles flex around the liquid, and Sherlock is almost incoherent when I dip my finger inside to brush around his prostate. He’s stopped sucking my cock, which is fine, because I think at this point, I'd probably lose it if he were to start again. And I want this to last a bit longer.

‘Get on your back,’ I tell him, and he scrambles to lay beside me. Usually when I’m this keyed up, I want to be as deep inside him as possible, and take him from behind, but I want to see his face as I fill him. I want to kiss him as I move inside him. Sherlock’s arms reach for me, and I stroke my cock with lube in my fist before settling over him. His legs immediately wrap around my hips, so I know he wants this deep, hard, and intimate, too. I love watching the head of my cock sink into his arse. He’s hot and tight and greedy; his hips jerk up to greet mine immediately, and soon I’m deep as possible inside him.

‘I love you,’ he whispers, then takes my mouth with his. I want to take this slowly, but he’s making it impossible. His long limbs wrap around me until I am chest to chest with him, and he’s thrusting his cock against my stomach. ‘God, _yes_ ,’ he whimpers against my mouth. ‘Fuck me, John. I'm yours, yours-’

We're panting into each mouths hard, desperate for each other. I pull back a little to slam harder into him, and he cries out with pleasure. I set a hard, quick pace that hits his prostate with each thrust, and watch as his cock slaps his stomach. It’s still leaking, and redder than ever. He’s close, but then, so am I. I want him on his hands and knees, so I can pull out and watch his gaping hole leak out my come when we're done, but I am far too gone for that now. There’s just the animalistic urge to take and let the entire universe know he’s mine by making him scream my name.

‘Touch me,’ he pleads. Demanding in and out of bed, I think with a grin, and I oblige, fisting his cock madly. The noises we're now making are sure to rouse Mrs H below, but neither of us care. I fuck him into the mattress, hearing my balls slap against his arse, and he reaches up for me for a hard kiss before there’s nothing but ‘John, John, John, John...’

Hot spurts of come splatter across his chest and my hand, and the tight grasping of his arse around my cock is too much. I lose my mind as I come, hardly able to breathe as things go fuzzy and white behind my eyelids. ‘Oh, fuck,’ I moan. ‘Fuck Sherlock, oh Jesus...’ I collapse against his chest, trying to get my breathing steady. I feel like I've been thrown around in a storm; my entire universe has shifted for just a moment, and I can’t get my head on straight.

‘That was...’

‘Brilliant,’ I finish. Sherlock kisses the top of my head, and runs his hands over my back softly for awhile, before I pull out and use the corner of the duvet to clean us up a bit.

‘I do love you,’ he says after a while, after the sweat has dried and it gets chilly in the room once more. ‘I always have.’

‘I love you, you great genius,’ I tell him, a smile on my lips. My head is still resting on his chest, more perfectly content than I've ever been in my entire life. I can hear his heartbeat, so I just close my eyes and listen for what feels like hours. Then, ‘we're agreed that we're not exchanging gifts this year, right?’

‘I rather thought that was my gift,’ Sherlock chuckles. ‘It felt like a gift.’

‘Mmm, then I propose that sex is the gift we give each other this year.’ I kiss his chest and take a great breath, anxious but excited. ‘Like… maybe you could try doing that to me sometime.’

‘I thought you didn't want to be penetrated,’ he says, and only he can make the word “ _penetrated_ ” sound arousing.

‘I wouldn't mind trying,’ I tell him. The idea honestly terrifies me, but I trust Sherlock with my entire being. Besides, the idea of part of his body being inside of me is incredibly erotic.

‘God John, you ought to warn me before you telling me such things,’ he growls, flipping us over so I'm on my back.

I yelp. ‘I didn’t mean this moment, give me a moment!’ I laugh as he sucks on my nipple hard. ‘I’m not a young man anymore.’

His hand wraps around my still-soft cock, and I groan. ‘I’ll give you twenty minutes,’ he tells me. ‘I rather want to know how you look when I… what is the phrase? “Milk your prostate.”’ The look on my face must be amusing, because Sherlock can’t stop laughing for at least the next five minutes.

Merry Fucking Christmas indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy/Merry Christmas! I needed me some Johnlock smut, so here it is. Hasn't been Brit-picked, but Jess and Sarah looked over it for me, thanks ladies! 
> 
> Follow me on tumblr, imworkingonit86. I am all about the John Watson/Martin Freeman/Johnlock love.


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